Lost in Purgatory

Chapter 8

Oliver knew he'd never forget the look on Constantine's face as he casually stepped over the carving on the threshold – oh yeah, for the pure of heart only, he thought. Suck on that, weird British guy. So he wasn't sure why, seconds later, he was saving this guy's life. Waller was always calling him sentimental – maybe she was right.

Then, later, when Constantine offered to help him escape the island, he could have kicked himself for not having dragged Felicity with them, somehow. Pointless bellyaching about it now, anyway. He refused the offer, though he couldn't meet Constantine's eyes, and mumbled something about the slave workers who were trapped here too. Constantine gave him a sceptical look.

"So, it's got nothing to do with a tiny blonde bird who does all the work on her knees?"

Oliver answered without thinking, and then cursed himself.

"She can't see without her glasses- I mean-"

Constantine nodded sagely.

"Yes, all those poor workers."

Oliver flushed. Constantine let him stew for a few seconds, then clapped him on the shoulder.

"Just havin' a laugh, mate. Listen, sometimes I get a feelin' about a bloke, right? No, don't look at me like that, though I'd be up for it if you are, fit lad like you."

Oliver tried to work all this out in his head – he felt like he needed subtitles with this guy.

"Are you making a pass at me? 'Cause I'm flattered, don't get me wrong, but I'm not gay."

Constantine gave him a sharp grin.

"More's the pity. No. When I say I get a feelin', I mean something about your future, something that's waiting for you . . ." His words were ridiculous, Oliver thought, but his attitude was pretty convincing.

"So, you're what . . . a psychic?" Oliver tried not to make his scepticism so obvious.

"Take too long to explain what I am, mate, besides what's on my card," he answered, rolling up his sleeves further.

Oliver hadn't noticed the tattoo on Constantine's right arm before. There were four Chinese characters, but Oliver had no idea what they meant. Constantine put that weird metal staff to his own arm, and the tattoo vanished, like it had been sucked up into the staff. Just as Oliver had gotten over watching that impossibility happen, he was ordered to lift his shirt, and the same tattoo was burnt into him. He looked at the new markings on his abdomen and glared at Constantine.

"The fuck did you just do to me?"

Constantine laughed. He'd got out a piece of paper and was writing something down.

"Now, that," he said, pointing to Oliver's new ink, "is a cleansing spell. This," he continued, giving Oliver the bit of torn notepaper, "is what you say to unlock it. Don't read it out loud until you need it."

Oliver felt like he was in some kind of waking nightmare.

"When will I need it?"

Constantine shrugged.

"You'll know when it happens."

"What about Reiter?"

"Don't worry about him. He thinks he has a handle on the darkness in this island – he's just makin' himself weaker, like. You have to fight magic when you're using it. You have to fight it all the time." Constantine noticed Oliver's blank look. "Using magic, real magic, isn't like . . . it's not like drinking a bottle of wine – it's like a bottle of wine that drinks you back."